


New Fear's Eve

by IAmThePasserby



Series: The Worst New Year [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Warehouses, Angst, Canon Compliant, Dark, Gen, Guilt, Home Invasion, Hospital, Kidnapping, Lots of Crying, Motel, Murder, One Shot, POV Dean, Panic, Pre-Series, Violence, wee!Dean, wee!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmThePasserby/pseuds/IAmThePasserby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't matter what just happened. It doesn't matter what I just did. Nothing matters at all but that my baby brother is alive. I don't know why I'm still crying. </p>
<p>That's a lie. Of course I know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Fear's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> This one is from Dean's perspective, and it's dark. Very dark. Sam is nine and Dean is 13.

**DEAN**

  
I'm faking, and I'm doing a good job of it.  
  
The room's heater is broken, and the walls are so thin that is feels like the wind isn't hindered at all. The cold is more than annoying; it's downright unavoidable. I'm sitting on the bed with my back against the flimsy head board, one leg bent and the other stretched out while Sam sits on the end of the mattress facing me, one of his schoolbooks on his lap. He's wearing his jacket and mine, the blanket is pulled backward over his crossed legs, and I made sure that he put socks on. I'm a bit proud of myself for not shivering, even though I'm only wearing a t-shirt and sweats, and my arms have little goosebumps rising on them. The toes on my right foot keep twitching, though.  
  
The clock on the wall seems to be getting bigger by the second, I'm sure Sammy will notice it anytime now. It's all but covering the entire wall, there's no way I can distract him from looking at it much longer, but he keeps looking elsewhere, miraculously, and babbling on about some war that he learned about in history the other day. I nod in all the right places, even add a comment or two, and keep the ever swelling clock in my periphery, hoping that Sam just keeps looking my way, and doesn't turn to look.  
  
Dad was supposed to be home six hours and fourteen minutes ago.   
  
This doesn't have to be a big deal. Dad could have just had a delay. He could have stopped to eat. He might've taken longer to find the grave. He might have hit traffic. He might have followed up on a second lead. He could just be running late; it wouldn't be the first time.   
  
Or he might be hurt. He might be injured. He might be...  
  
But I'm good at faking. Sam gets worried too easily, is brought to tears too quickly, gets scared way too much, and I don't want my little brother to have to get worked up over nothing, so I don't look worried at all. I'm not jittery, my face is slack and blasé, my grin is crooked and content, and my attention looks solely given to Sam.  
  
I'm thirteen, and Michael Keaton's got nothing on me.  
  
Sam pauses in the middle of his latest sentence, in the middle of turning a page, and his eyebrows crinkle a little. Oh geez.  
  
"Dean?" Sam's got his thinking face on. Crap.  
  
"Yeah?" I say, like I'm not royally screwed.  
  
"Why isn't Dad back yet?" and Sam turns to look at the clock, and short of grabbing his head, I know I won't be able to keep him from looking, and dammit, he's going to start freaking out, crap crap crap crap cr-  
  
Then things start happening way too fast.  
  
The window crashes (which doesn't make sense because windows don't crash, they shatter, but it doesn't sound like a shatter, it sounds like a crash), and I don't even really comprehend that the crash came from the wood of the window's ledge breaking off a bit, but that's not even important because the important thing is that there are men whose faces I can't see clambering in through the broken window. They get in too fast, I can't count them, and I've already shoved my brother off of the bed and into the small space between it and the dresser in one move. I don't know what I’ve shouted, but I'm sure it was something like, "DOWN, SAM, NOW, STAY HERE," and I already have Dad's favorite knife out from under the pillow and in front of me.  
  
But it's just happening too fast.  
  
Dad's trained us since before Sam can remember, and I'm good, I know I'm good, so I don't really know why there's already a guy gripping my arm by the time I'm standing ready with the knife. I don't know why a second man is already wrapping his arm around my throat, pulling me against him and grabbing my other arm with his other hand, pulling it back and up behind my back. I don't know how there's already a third guy standing in front of me with a pistol aimed at my face, and I don't know how there's already a fourth man reaching toward Sam on my left.  
  
I don't know anything really, but it doesn't matter, because the second that Sam shouts, "Dean!" I don't need to know anything else.  
  
My right leg comes up in a snap kick and I know that it breaks at least two of the gunman's fingers, and the gun goes flying. I whip my head back at the guy behind me; he's taller than I am, so I get his chin and not his nose, which hurts me more than it hurts him, but he's surprised enough to falter. That's all I need to find the space to elbow him hard in the ribs and whirl, pulling my other arm free.  
  
I get about four sound punches in before they really react. One guy is half-unconscious by now, and the man with the broken hand is cursing furiously. It takes all of them to get me down and tied up.  
  
I'm lying on the floor, and I watch everything sideways as they reach for Sam, who kicks and screams before he thinks to actually fight. I'm almost positive he bites one guy's arm hard enough to draw blood before he gets at least two of them in the gut and grabs the knife from where I dropped it on the floor to swipe at broken-hand-man. I see a small spurt of blood.  
  
I don't think I've ever cussed so much or so loudly as I am right now. That's probably why they decide to gag me with the pillowcase.  
  
They hit Sam too many times, too hard, I can't handle it. My heart is in my mouth, strangling my tongue, or is that the pillowcase? I don't know, I don't care, they're taking Sam, they're taking my baby brother, and he's just nine, why are they hitting him, why are they even here, where's Dad?  
  
They go out the window one at a time, handing a squirming, gagged, tied up Sam out the window. I can see the black van outside. No. No no no no no.  
  
Sam's eyes are red and rolling in his head. One is swelling. He's crying and still trying to wiggle away. I remember when Sam was two, and he used to wiggle all the time like that. I used to think it was cute. Oh god.  
  
I can't move except to wiggle a bit like Sam. My hands are tied behind me and my legs are bound beneath me and the pillowcase is stifling in my mouth and tied too tight around my face, my head, pulling at my hair.

They’re gone. Sam is gone.  
  
It flits across my mind in glaring, neon brightness that Sam's hair is so long, dropping down over his eyes. If they tie anything behind his head, they'll pull his hair.  
  
And now I realize I'm crying. I would sob, but the material is blocking my breath, I can barely get enough air through my nose, and my face is red, I'm sure. I can feel tears sliding from right to left across my face, because I'm still sideways on the floor, useless.   
  
I don't think I've cried since Mom died. I shouldn't cry, I can't cry, stop crying stop crying stop crying.  
  
Sam is not going to die. He won't. He can’t. He can't, he _can't_ , but they took him, I didn't stop them, _why_ couldn't I stop them-  
  
I'm so furious that these strangers, these _people_ took my brother, and I don't even know why. I'm so angry at myself, at Dad, at everything, and I can't even move, and I bang the floor with the side of my head in frustration. Again. Again. I'm still crying.  
  
The banging sound keeps going, even though I've stopped. Maybe I've finally lost it.  
  
_Dean_  
  
More banging. Not banging, knocking.  
  
_Dean_  
  
Oh my god. That's Dad's voice, I can hear him outside the door, he's here, I can't move. Sammy's gone, Dad, Sammy's gone.  
  
I hear the knob jingle. I made a desperate noise through my nose that sounds pathetically like a cat or something. I would wiggle some more, but what's the point?  
  
I can hear the door swing open. My eyes are wild, and I'm still crying, but who the hell cares, Dad is taking too long.  
  
I hear the sharp intake of breath as Dad probably sees blood, the knife, signs of struggle. The clock has shrunk now on the wall, how is that even possible, it’s going impossibly fast. Hurry up hurry up hurry up.  
  
"Dean! Sam!" I can hear it, Dad's voice is a unique mix of fire and ice, boiling anger and cold terror.  
  
It's nothing compared to what I'm feeling right now.  
  
_Please hurry, please hurry, Dad, they have Sam, please-_  
  
Dad comes around the bed, sees me, and immediately drops to untie me.  
  
"It's okay, Dean, I've got it, I've got it, there," he says as he frees my hands, and moves to my legs. I pull the pillowcase from around my face, and I don't care that the air is cool and soothing in my mouth compared to the scratch and smell of the fabric. I don't care, I cut Dad off before he can ask what happened.  
  
"They took Sammy," and wow, my voice actually sounds like my heart is actually lodged there against my palate, I can't believe it, "Four men with guns and masks, they came through the window and _they took him_ ," I'm spitting the words out as fast as I can, somewhere between soldier's report mode and hysterics, "and I couldn't-" the sobs from before are trying to make up for lost time, "I tried Dad, I'm sorry," _I'm so sorry Sammy_ , "but I couldn't f-fight them all."  
  
"Dean, calm down," Dad says, and I've never disobeyed an order, but it's still incredible to me that I do calm down, "we're going to find him."  
  
Dad's word isn't golden or anything, he breaks promises all the time, but screw it, I believe him.  
  
I tell him about the black van, and immediately we're up and loading guns. I'm shaking. I'm breathing too fast. I need to calm down, I never act like this.  
  
Well, Sammy usually never gets kidnapped either. My breathing picks up. I spare half a second to wipe at my eyes before I follow Dad swiftly outside to the car.  
  
The drive is a massive blur. Dad needs details, and I give them. I'm in this strange mode; my mouth is on autopilot, all my freaking-out has moved to my hands that are shaking and making fists and then shaking. All my anger has moved to my jaw where I'm clenching my teeth so hard they'll surely shatter any second, all my adrenalin is stuck in my left leg that is bouncing bouncing bouncing, and I think my vision has completely turned off to watch a mind’s eye replay of every time Sam got hit.  
  
I can't take this. I can't take this.  
  
After maybe an hour of this stupidity, I think to grab Dad's phone. I call the police. I call that Christian shelter place I saw when we drove in. I call the bar, I call the local church, I call the police again. I run out of ideas. I don't know what else to do.  
  
We stop the car near the far edge of town and pull out the map to decide what buildings we're going to search.  
  
I think that these people are probably expecting us to look for them. They're probably planning something, waiting for us.  
  
When Dad agrees, I don't mention that I hadn't meant to say that out loud. A strong, red flush of anger at my father's penchant for making enemies rushes through me.  
  
Then it's gone. I just want to find Sam.  
  
I go back to shaking and clenching and bouncing and autopilot as we speed off toward the other side of town where a long road of decrepit warehouses and storage houses might be the perfect place for a hideout. I can't help but start to imagine what they could be doing to Sam. I know the stories like everyone else does about what some sick people do to little boys.  
  
At one point I almost ask Dad to pull over so I can be sick. I change my mind at the thought of wasting any time that Sam might not have to spare.  
  
I can't handle this.   
  
It takes too long. We spend hours at the wrong places, and I start to think that Dad was wrong. We aren't going to find him, the last thing my brother will ever have heard me say is a curse word, the last conversation we'll have had together will be one I wasn't even paying attention to, the last-  
  
We find the black van.   
  
I start to say something, maybe words of relief, maybe another curse. I don't know, but the heart in my throat blocks it. Dad and I start sprinting inside.  
  
We head to the lower levels, we go down stairs. We run through the dark, we burst through doors.  
  
And there they are. All four of them, sitting in the basement drinking beer.  
  
I don't think I've ever actually seen red before, but I've heard people use the expression. I never really believed it was literal.  
  
I think it might be true now, but I actually don't see red; I see a kind of hazed yellow-green. Maybe it's the florescence, maybe it's me just going crazy, but I swear, everything kind of goes silent save for my heartbeat in my ears, and with a yellow-tint to it all I rush at broken-hand-man.  
  
Just like before, things happen much too fast.  
  
I'm searching while I'm fighting, and I can't see Sammy. I call for him, I tell Dad I don't see him, and I knock out one guy, I kill broken-hand-man, and I-  
  
I freeze. Dad takes out the other two guys.   
  
There's this moment where I think I've had a stroke, which is ridiculous, because I'm thirteen. Thirteen year olds don't have strokes. But thirteen year olds don't kill people either.  
  
I killed a man. I wonder what Mom would think. I know what Sam would think. I tell God it's okay if He sends me to hell, I’ll understand. I feel dirty.  
  
I look at Dad. He stares, and then just nods at me.  
  
The moment ends, and to be honest, I almost forget about it entirely. Dad and I sweep the basement.  
  
Dad finds Sam inside of a freezer, _oh my god oh my god,_ and starts yelling his name, and scrambling inside. I can't see, I can't see if he's ok or if he's dead or anything and I swear I'm going to have a stroke for real this time.  
  
"Dad?" I choke out, "Is he...Dad, he-he's not..." I can't say it, I can't, I can't handle this.  
  
And then God spares me. He doesn't send me to hell; he gives me heaven, an angel, an angel that I get to take care of and watch out for and teach about life and school and work and everything.  
  
"D-d-d..." Sam's voice, calling for me.  
  
It doesn't matter what just happened. It doesn't matter what I just did. Nothing matters at all but that my baby brother is alive.   
  
I can't even feel my legs anymore. I'm awkward and wobbly as I follow after my father carrying Sam to the car, and I'm crying again.  
  
Sam is in my arms. I hold him and tell him everything's going to be ok.   
  
It has to be. How could it not be? We found him.  
  
We get to the hospital just as it's getting light outside, and the hospital staff flit around us like spooked birds. They take Sam away, and for a moment I'm about to panic again, but then I just settle back into that strange clenched-jaw-shaking-hands-bouncing-leg-replay-before-my-eyes mode and my mouth is on autopilot again, drinking coffee with my Dad while we wait.  
  
I don't know why I'm still crying.  
  
That's a lie. Of course I know why.  
  
"Dad," my mouth says it on its own. It's on autopilot, I have no control, "don't tell Sammy."  
  
I have a moment again where I feel like I've lost my very humanity, where I know in my head and my heart and my hands and my knees that I have failed as a man, even if I've succeeded as a brother, when I can't stand the memory of my mother's face and her eyes crinkling and her lips smiling softly while she says, "angels are watching over you," and I'm horrified to know what Sam will think when he finds out, what Sam would think if he found out, I can't ever let Sam find out-  
  
"Okay," Dad says, like I just mentioned the time. I know he knows what I'm talking about, and the moment is over again. We go back to sitting and waiting.   
  
I finish my coffee and get away for a second to go to throw my cup away and get to the men's room. Somewhere along the way I recall that it's New Year's Day. The first day of the New Year.   
  
I think sarcastically that I'm off to a great start.  
  
In the bathroom, I stop crying, and start to weep, but I'm done in eight minutes, and when I get back to my Dad, he doesn't ask. I sit next to him and I'm back to my normal self. Calm and collected, even though I'm still intensely concerned.  
  
It's January 1, and I'm waiting to have my brother back. Again. I can handle this, I can, I'm good at faking.  
  
Michael Keaton's got nothing on me. Nobody's got anything on this. I doubt anybody has had a New Year's Eve worse than this one.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this, and the other New Year's stories, as character studies. I wanted to explore Dean's voice vs Sam or John's, to establish a tone of awareness and guilt for my John, and to kind of get some claustrophobic vibes out of my system through Sam. 
> 
> This one was really easy for me to write, actually. Dean has always been the easier of the brothers for me to write, but this specific piece was a little more so. It makes sense to me that Dean thinks in run-on sentences, with sarcasm, and extensive use of hyperbole.


End file.
